What Ho! Aniyanman

[Tribute to my uncle (KV Ramachandran aka Aniyanman) on his shashtipurti (60th birthday)]

Reminiscing about ones association with an uncle is a tough task at the best of times. And when the protagonist happens to be a dear ol’ bloke (pardon my French!) like Aniyanman, it’s rendered doubly so. You wouldn’t want to miss out gloating over the positive encounters, while treading the fine line, and overlooking his failings (I can hear the whispers questioning “does he really have any?”; hold on folks! More on that later!) But the shashtipurti of the gentleman in question, a milestone in any man’s life, is reason enough to warrant putting ones pen to paper (or the finger to the keyboard, in this instance) and letting loose that volley of remembrances that are stored in quaint niches of ones memory.

My earliest recollection of Aniyanman is actually not really early enough. Rather, it’s rather recent! I don’t seem to have encountered this epitome of self-assurance during my annual pilgrimage to Kerala as a kid. The fact that we used to be in perpetual motion (defying all laws of Physics!) between Trissur and Velur, transgressing infrequently to Painkulam, meant that Tripunithura (where Aniyanman presumably spent the better part of his vacation) was never on the itinerary. I recall only one occasion of visiting Tripunithura, and I have no qualms in stating with a reasonable amount of certainty that the gent in question wouldn’t have been infesting those precincts, since it’s downright unlikely that one would have missed his booming, good-natured presence.

Be that as it may, I first ran into Aniyanman in Pune at the wedding reception of Ajithettan and Indu (Jan 1993?). He accosted a clueless me and demanded to know whether I knew who he was. Completely at a loss, I sheepishly grinned and acknowledged self-defeat. At that, in his inimitable (and overwhelmingly informal) style, he introduced himself as (one of) my (myriad) karnawars. If I recall correctly, his words were “Nan thande oru karnawar aannu edo”. “Umm…” I murmured, at once apologetic and illuminated. From then on, our encounters were far more frequent, no doubt, assisted by my movement to Lonavla, a place in close proximity to Bombay, the residence of Aniyanman.

Marriage, they say, is a turning point in ones life. It definitely was in my case (but that’s another story!), and by a strange quirk of fate, Aniyanman had a finger in that pie (and a big one at that!). My prospective father-in-law, accompanied by his brother (another Aniyanman aka Belapur Valyachen) and the Late Rudranman had visited me at Lonavla to “check me out” as it were, to assess the potential for a possible matrimonial alignment. Having satisfied themselves, in the next stage of an elaborate ritual, achan and amma were invited to Bombay to check Manju (my eventual good lady!) out. After all that brouhaha, finally it was our turn (yours truly’s and Manju’s) to meet up and check each other out. On the appointed day, I landed up from Lonavla at Kamalavalyyama’s place at Govandi. We were contemplating our next move (Govandi to Goregaon (where Manju stayed) can be a long haul at the best of times), when Aniyanman offered to “do the dirty” and drive me and Rudranman to Goregaon. I had Gitammayi too, in tow. She insisted it was for company, but I have this strong suspicion that she was there to chaperone me, lest I try some old sailor’s stunt during my tête-à-tête with the prospective bride! The rest, as they say, is history! I was betrothed to (and besotted with) Manju, and used every excuse in the rule book (and out of it!) to travel to Bombay from Lonavla over weekends, weekdays and the days in between. During these jaunts, the BPCL Colony in Chembur would often be home to me, drawing me deeply into an association with Aniyanman that has bonded well over the years.

Shortly thereafter, I went through a great personal misfortune. On my way to Bhilai (to convalesce from that traumatic event), Aniyanman again played host to achan, amma and I. During that stay, there was a cultural event where Kavita and Kiran were participating, and all of us were planning to attend that. Since Manju had come over to Chembur, we (I and Manju) decided to give it a miss and catch up(!). We hadn’t walked around the sacred fire as yet (read, were as yet, unmarried), and sensing that leaving us all alone in the house would be a trifle awkward (lest we should get into a “situation”), Aniyanman, selflessly, volunteered to stay back (and, in the event, miss his kids’ performances) so that the rest of the gang could go out, attend the performance, and have a jolly good time, while we (Manju and I) had a jolly good time under the vigilant eye of the redoubtable karnawar.

On my return from Bhilai, post recuperation, there he was at it again, at the Dadar Railway Station to receive me and take me home. I don’t know what prompted me to request him to be there, despite so many others being there, but then, there are inexplicables, and then there are inexplicables! So let’s leave it at that.

Our association continued on the ascendant, as I moved into Ghatkopar from Lonavla later. That was the phase when Aniyanman, not quite sure of where his professional life was headed, decided to take the plunge, and move into entrepreneurial ventures. I remember having visited his office setup in Andheri and later in Chembur, where he used to describe to me in great detail, the vision he had, of the work that he was up to. He stayed bitten by that bug for quite some time to come.

Soon after that, I moved into Delhi, and our interaction reduced to that over telephone and the occasional meeting in Kerala/ Bombay. But I dare say that he is one of our kin who has always remained in touch. In fact, that is one quality that I have always admired about Aniyanman; his innate urge to communicate and share the news about the loved ones. Seldom does a month pass before you hear his reassuring voice, booming over the phone. Hats off to you Aniyanman, for being so persistent during these times, when it’s so easy to lose touch, despite so many avenues to be in touch! And I must say that Kavita and Kiran have imbibed that habit rather well.

Aniyanman, as you celebrate this landmark event in your life, I am sure there’s not a soul around who would dispute the fact that you have lived life on your own terms! You are blessed with a heart of gold, and the good Thirivanjikuzhi Lord, I am sure, will keep it ticking for years to come, so that several generations after ours, are able to partake of that suffusing love. All I can wish for is that you continue to do what you are great at – spreading your charm, love and grace.

Meantime, have a blast on your special day. Here’s looking forward to toast you on your shatabhishekam, centennial celebrations and well beyond!

PS. Recall that I alluded to certain failings of the B’day boy earlier on. Recall also, that I promised you more on that later. Ladies and gentlemen, please relax, let go of your (collective) bated breaths and hardened jaws, for without permission, I accord myself poetic license, and save that juicy bit for my account during the shatabhishekam of the man in question. Rest assured, my kith and kin, I shall expound on them in graphic details. That, is a soldier’s promise!

Waka Waka

(This piece was written to wish CVS Raman (my good friend from school, through college, into the Navy, and thence!) a happy birthday in Jun 2010. But in the euphonous cacophony of the World Cup football, it got lost. It's being resurrected so that it gains its rightful place in the blog!)

The World Cup Soccer took its toll in terms of delayed b'day wishes. What with the mind-numbing overkill of the World Cup Soccer (and the ear-numbing din of tens of thousands of Afrikan vuvuzelas), one had no time to wish ones near and dear ones. But I am sure all concerned will pardon the deadly sin as it would have been blasphemous for any self-respecting football fan to be seen anywhere yesterday (11 Jun 2010), but in front of the idiot-box (The only other place that one can think of, where one would have been forgiven for being seen, is of course, Johannesburg!)

Now, to cut the brouhaha, let me let you all on to a truth. Frankly, I was mesmerised by the cadence and rhythm of the "Waka Waka, Zaminamina" as it matched the swaying hips, in perfect harmony, of the diva who performed it at the opening ceremony - you see; Shakira's hips don't lie!

And now, to set the record straight, here's one torpedo, fired straight from the heart. I am sure it will hit your submarine and blow it to smithereens!

WAKA WAKA CV

As your hair (and beard) turn a deeper shade of salt and a lighter shade of pepper;
As you slow down physically to rack up mentally;
As you gain in wisdom what you lose in memory;
As you contemplate quitting binges to avoid the cringes (thereafter);
As you mull the reasonableness of metamorphing from "spirited" to "spiritual";
As your definition of late nights shift dramatically from 0200 hrs to 2000 hrs;
Remember, that the 40s are the new 20s.

So go ahead, and have a blast! And while you are at it, don't forget to catch the action, of Drogba or Rooney chasing the ball (or better still, each other), between sips of chilled "Heineken"

Regards,
Anand.

PS. BTW, Waka Waka in Swahili means blaze, burn brightly, burn well, shine etc. Hence the heading.

The Young Man and the Ambalakulam

(A piece to celebrate the 80th birthday of my dear Dad)

(NOTE: Several terms that may seem unfamiliar to the uninitiated have been amplified in the glossary at the end of this narrative)

Most of us would perhaps be familiar with the classic “The Old Man and the Sea”, that poignant rendition by Earnest Hemingway, that recounts in stark details the pangs of a man who finds his loved ones and friends deserting him as he ages. At the risk of sounding pompous, I intend to exploit poetic licence and paraphrase that work of art, to describe a person that I have known since I was born. Well, maybe not for that entire duration (since my recollection of the first three or four years of my existence is really a blur), but I can safely vouch for at least the last 45 years or so.

So, while you gather your wits and try to guess my age from that teaser, let me move on, and try to unravel the mystery of that rather esoteric title of my work “The Young Man and the Ambalakulam”.

As a common phrase, “old man’’ is rather a demeaning form of addressing anyone. That’s the reason the title of this piece has been paraphrased. Unfortunately, or fortunately, the phrase is used to refer only to men (“old man”, talk about gender sensitivity!), for women are not expected to grow old, rather, they age gracefully. But, we will reserve that discussion for another day!

All of you who had known this bon vivant gentleman, my father, Achutha Warrier, from Padinjare Warriam, Velur, am sure would agree to the fact that here’s a bloke who believes in living his life to the fullest. Not for him the repentance and self-pitying mode of existence that many a person resorts to, at the first hints of trouble in ones life. He would rather take life by the scruff of the neck, give it a few whacks and shakes, and force it to fall in line with his scheme of things. More often than not, this philosophy of his has paid rich dividends.

Here’s a man who takes care of his demeanour, his poise (despite his once in a while outbursts), his looks, his sartorial ensemble, his perception of what is right and wrong, in short, anything and everything that has a vague connection to his persona. For instance, I won’t be exaggerating in my claim that he doesn’t look a day over forty; OK, make that 45, if you are so fastidious. In fact in the looks department, this youngish looking dad can give many a man, half his age (yours truly included), a run for their money. Look at his jet black mane, his trim waist, and his vivacious outlook to life. I would give my right arm, and some, to be able to emulate that at his age. But, then, he has always been like that!

His passion for life has to be seen to be believed. Despite several early setbacks in his life (like not having a full-time father, and losing his mother to illness early on in his married life), he has been a pillar of strength to several of his peers and siblings.

My Achan left the secure confines of his home at the rather tender age of fifteen, to pursue a diploma in electrical engineering at Thrissur. This was followed by a job in Kottayam (those days considered the back-of-the-beyond). That couldn’t satisfy the ambitious Achu’s quest for better things in life. Thus, as a youngish twenty something, this lad from the heart of Kerala, landed up in Bhilai, to work at its famous steel plant. The rest, as they say, is history.

He lend his heart and soul to his job at the steel plant. Whatever spare time he had in hand, was devoted to enhance the social, cultural, and ethnic bonding of the malayalees in Bhilai. Observing him, I have had the privilege of learning that you must give it all you have to the task at hand. At the same time, he also taught me to work hard, play harder and live by a set of stringent ethical moorings.

His ear for the musical arts is something that I would like to believe that all of us (Aju (my younger brother), Mol (my younger sister, the youngest among the siblings), and I) have inherited. In fact, it seems to have seeped into the subsequent generation as well. And he’s pretty unbiased in his choice of genres; he would listen to the plaintive rendition of a Kamukara Purushottaman, with the same deference that he would pay to a Mohhamad Rafi number.

It would take rather long, if I start recounting here, every aspect of my Achan’s, that has touched my life. That will possibly have to be spread over the celebrations of his shatabhishekam, the navathi, and the event to mark his century on earth. But, here’s my humble hypothesis of why he is wired the way that he is. And, it’s here that I take recourse to the metaphor of the ambalakulam, that mass of water near Padinjare Wariam at Velur, that doubles up as the holy tank for the Velur Bhagavati.

The moment he enters the precincts of that ambalakulam, my Achan is a transformed entity. The vibrancy, vivacity and the sheer exuberance with which he launches into the pool is unexplainable in mere words and phrases. It’s as if he’s a man possessed. To this day, when he sets foot at the ambalakulam, he would rather challenge the pool with a somersault, and take on the denizens of the pool on a competitive race to the finish, than acquiesce and do a graceful lap of its length. The ambalakulam releases a certain rush of adrenalin in him, the kind that a Chris Gayle feels when confronted with a half-volley or a flighted, short-of-length delivery. It has to be dispensed with, with the utmost disdain. No mercies there; none given, and none taken. Period!

I am sure that attitude is a result of dogged perseverance during the initial years, when the going would have been tough, and the odds of coming up trumps rather low. But thanks to sheer tenacity, survival instincts and the will to succeed, here’s a striking example of a completely self-made man, who, despite the success in life, never for a moment lost the roots, or the love of his brethren. That quality of his, I am sure you would all agree, is what endears him to all of us.

I am thankful to you, dear Achan, for those fabulous genes that you have passed on to me. That DNA of yours not only helps me look and feel good, but more importantly, it bestows a rare combination of skills, tact, diplomacy, and the will to live it up, come what may. For that, I would remain beholden to you for life. Here’s wishing the 80 year old young man, several years of healthy, happy and contented life. Ladies and gentleman, please join me in raising a toast to one of the most vivacious, daring, unassuming yet devil-may-care human being that I have had the pleasure of being associated with, my father, my janani and my constant sounding board, Velur Achutha Warrier.

Glossary
Ambalakulam - literally the temple pond; it is sacred (considering that it belongs to the temple). It is the place where the dwellers near the temple perform their ablutions.
Padinjare Wariam - My Dad's ancestral home. Warriam is the abode of Warriers. My father is a Warrier, and you guessed it, I am one, too.
Velur - The village where my Dad was born and brought up. (Malayalees, traditionally, prefix the name of their village/town etc. to their names).
Achu - Dad's pet name.
Shatabhishekam - 84th birthday; specially relevant, since one would have lived through 1000 full moons.
Navati - 90th birthday.
Velur Bhagawati - The reigning deity at the famous temple at Velur, right next to my Dad's ancestral home.
Achan - endearing term for Dad (in Malayalam)

Ode to an Academic Maestro

A tribute to Professor DB Phatak, on the occasion of his felicitation, by the students of IIT, Bombay, on him being conferred with the Padma Shri by the Government of India; he's undoubtedly, one of the very best to have 'educated' me (Class of 97, MTech, EE).

Two unique aspects separated out the profoundly knowledgeable Prof's classes from that of the rest of the faculty. One - most MTech classes had a student strength of between 8-15; Prof Phatak's had a whopping 78. This entailed that we use the conference hall in the Computer Science Department as the classroom, since no other room could squeeze in so many enthused souls. For a majority of his students, the extraordinary popularity of the course stemmed from the fact that Prof Phatak had a distinctive and engaging style of pedagogy (he may not like the use of that word, though!), flirting from a core academic concept to the hard-nosed practicality of its application, that ensured there were no snores during the class; rather his utterings were so riveting that the wide-eyed audience, with rapt attention, would cling on to every word that slipped from the intellectual's mouth, lest one missed out on some esoteric fundas! For the miniscule minority (that comprised the lazybones, who too, never missed Prof Phatak's classes!), the Prof's acceptability was attributed to his propensity for a liberal marking scheme that ensured 'flying colours', post the exams.

The second USP of the Prof's classes - shock and awe! While the rest of the faculty used to engage classes during the normal working hours, Prof Phatak announced during his first class that he preferred the graveyard shift. Thus, began the unique experience of classes from 2100 to 2230 hrs, twice a week, on Wednesdays and Fridays (to compensate for three lectures a week of one hour each). More often than not, these classes would commence as late as 2130 hrs, when the Prof got finally free from his myriad engagements (he was also the Dean (R&D) at that time, if memory serves me right). With manadtory 'fag' breaks that endeared him to the smokers in our midst, the classes would often continue well into the wee hours of the next morn! On one occasion, he chaperoned the entire class, at around 2200 hrs, to cheer a few spunky students who were out to gate-crash into the Limca book of records, by their bravado of attempting to stay in water for more than 72 hours in the Institute swimming pool.

The Prof's evaluation schema too were rather avant garde. At a time when the internet/intranet had not yet pervaded our lives, he used to send out assignments on the Institute intranet. Since we weren't connected all the time (as we are now!), this would surprise many a student, leading to submissions well past the 'use by' dates. I guess, the benevolence of the Prof would see these guys through!

On a personal front, I had the privilege of meeting Prof Phatak, after several years, when my organisation, WESEE, celebrated its silver jubilee in 2004, where he was one of the key note speakers. More recently, last year, I could demonstrate to him some of the pioneering work in cryptographic security engineering and network hardening that the Navy has been progressing to secure its applications and enterprise network. Hats off to you Sir, for having sown the seeds of inquisition, research and delivery that has allowed me to do what I do.

The Padma Shri is indeed a rare honour and recognition of your yeoman services to the nation, and all your students would undoubtedly exult at the accolade accorded to you. However, I, as indeed my fellow classmates at IIT Powai, and a legion of your students, are certain in our belief that you are cut out for greater things in life (a Nobel perhaps, why not!?) As you celebrate the honour bestowed on you, I take this opportunity to congratulate your family and wish you all the very best in the times to come; or as we in the Navy say - Fair weather and God speed to you, Sir.

College Silver Jubilee Reunion - Bald pates, salt-n-pepper, beer bellies, love handles, and loads of back slaps, hugs & nostalgia!

It's been a long time away, therefore a longish piece. This was penned to commemorate the Silver Jubilee Reunion of NIT Raipur, my alma mater, and the first home away from home, as the title suggests.

VIGNETTES FROM THE FIRST ‘HOME AWAY FROM HOME’

Tribute to a stellar alma mater, its talented faculty, and a remarkable set of chums, all of whom, have wittingly or unwittingly shaped the author’s life

Here I was, on a dull and humid July morning of 2012, attending the counseling session for my elder son’s admission to the Delhi College of Engineering, when I got a call from Bidyut (Mazumdar) regarding the Silver Jubilee Reunion (SJR) of the Class of 87. The enormity of the coincidence didn’t escape me! It was a similar dull and humid July morning, a score and a decade back (in the year of the lord - 1982), when I stepped tentatively, for the very first time, into the hallowed portals of what was then interchangeably referred to as the Government Engineering College (GEC), Raipur and/or the Government College of Engineering and Technology (GCET), Raipur*. Having being informed by the morning newspaper (Navbharat Times, Hindi edition, Raipur) of the momentous event of qualifying the Pre-Engineering Test (PET), the reason for my pilgrimage was to ascertain the veracity of the information (newspapers those days, as today, were rather notorious for typographical errors that could have earth-shattering consequences!), and if possible, determine which engineering institute beckoned me with an offer. I had just finished schooling from Bhilai, and Raipur, being the closest city (to my town) with an engineering institute, it was presumed that all such inputs would be offered on a platter there.

So off I went, to board the Jharsguda-Dongargarh passenger train (popularly known by its iconic acronym JD, with which, later, I was to have an extended romantic association for five long years!), in what was the maiden journey from Bhilai Railway Station to the unofficial Engineering College Station (the authorized Saraswati Nagar Station came much later, as we passing out from the institute). If I remember correctly, I had Sagar (Mohbe), Mantha (Vishwanath) and G Srinivas (Rao) for company that day, among others.

Getting back to the business on hand, Ek who din tha, aur ek aaj ka din hai! The institution has never disappointed. For, pasted on the walls of the imposing foyer of the institute, were computer print-outs, on stationery now reminiscent of a bygone era – papers with holes on the sides, to accommodate the pins on the spools of dot-matrix printers prevalent those days – neatly displaying the results of the PET. Having established that one had indeed figured in the merit list, my young and imaginative mind leapt with joy, and drummed up a flight of fantasy, that of leading an independent life, sans the constraints imposed at ones abode.

Eventually, I did land up at GEC Raipur, spent five eventful years in its precincts, and grabbed a degree in Electrical Engineering. But, that statement is too simplistic and bland to encompass the trials and tribulations, the welter of emotions, and the whale of a time that I had, while there. How do I capture for instance, the excitement of the first taste of freedom, the first General Goal (GG), the first swig of beer, and several other firsts that would remain in the nooks and crannies of my mind as long as I am alive (Alzheimer’s notwithstanding)? And, what, of the exhilaration and hullabaloo at the annual events like the College day, Elections, Hostel day etc.?

While I don’t intend dispensing justice to each and every event that stood out during the extraordinarily life-changing existence at GEC (R), I guess, I do have the liberty of recounting some, that would capture uss samay ka maahaul. So, fasten your seat-belts, ladies and gentlemen, and ready yourself for a roller-coaster ride, as I navigate you through a trip down memory lane, in random alphabetical order. Bon voyage!

J – JD. JD was the lifeline for home-to-college commute, for the five long years that I spent at Raipur. The journey, per se, was a learning experience. For instance, JD exposed me to Keynesian economics in all its glory, through first-hand enlightenment on abstruse concepts like the “social welfare state”. What else would you call a dispensation that, day in and day out, for years at a stretch, permits the practice of allowing students to travel free of charge (ticketless) for pursuing the sublime cause of education? Also, thanks to brilliant tutors like Burman (senior by a year) and Bidyut, one picked up the art of getting the train to screech to a halt at precise locations (through manoeuvres that went by the arcane names of pipe marna and key kholna), with an accuracy, which could give the trained drivers, a run for their money.

T – Teeter. Much before PETA entered Page 3 vocabulary, and a wide variety of birds were declared endangered, making it unlawful to hunt them, teeter (partridge) meat was a delicacy. It was savored once in a blue moon (read once a year), at the end of all examinations of the year, and just before one proceeded back home for vacations. Guys with vehicles were in great demand, and could often wheedle a free treat in exchange for ferrying the less fortunate to the venue (a Dhaba), which if I recall correctly, was quite some distance off, on the National Highway.

A – Akhand Bakar. More popularly known by the addition of a colourful expletive at the end of the second term (Bakar). While my pyaare dost aur sahapathi would need no prodding, I refrain from disclosing the expletive, since this piece is meant for the consumption of a family audience. Akhand Bakar… (AB), refers to the ritual of unending chat sessions, on anything and everything under the sun (girls, of course, being the most favoured), that often stretched into the wee hours of the morning. It was religiously practiced, on the night after every examination. AB would commence at several hotspots, almost simultaneously. Most preferred destinations were the terraces of the hostels, since mattresses were spread permanently here during the summer (to beat the heat while sleeping in the night), and one could crash immediately at the end of AB, or as and when nidra would strike. Veterans in this trade included (in no particular order) Amol Athawle, Devendra Verma, Pravesh Sharma, Madhu Babu, Bhupinder Singh, Sanjay Khare, Sarjeet Pathak, Jitendra Vikram Singh Gaur, Rajeev Singh, Sanjeev Kasliwal, et al. (to name a (very) few).

N – Netas. Mention netas, and the names of Yogesh Sharma, Inderjit Dhillon, Shaji Philip, et al., pop up. So too, do names like Devvrat Taran, Subhash Gupta and Simon Eipe, though they don’t belong here. The netagiri of these netas would be in full flow during college elections, those jamborees, when classes would be the last thing on ones mind, and ‘kidnapping’ and intimidation of the ‘opposition’ the order of the day! With amazing alacrity, the netas would organise free booze (for those so inclined) and movies (that one wouldn’t dare view in the company of respectable persons!), to wean the electorate into their fold.

S – Strikes. The punctuations, often welcome to the students at large, in an otherwise serene (boring?) state of affairs at college. It could be induced for a variety of bona fide, honourable reasons, for instance, to prove a point, to extend the vacations, to assuage a hurt ego, to postpone the exams, because Pappu hit Kallu, Hostel ‘B’ lost a cricket Match,…. I guess you get the drift! The modus operandi of precipitating a strike usually involved an ST Bus (thanks to its constant availability in close proximity at the ST Bus Depot, contiguous to the college boundary), and would range from the mundane (stoning an ST Bus), to the bizarre and dramatic (making a bonfire of an ST Bus).

H – Hostel. The hostel is ones first exposure to a live-in relationship; sadly they permit only members of the same gender to experiment! Be that as it may, it teaches you the impossible art of sharing, and caring for a bum chum (wrong choice of phrase there, can’t help that!).

Life in the hostel is one of devil-may-care existence. No fixed timings here for waking up, having a bath, going to the loo, eating food, or hitting the sack. In fact, a day in the life of a typical hosteller, is a succession of disjointed events. But, there is a method in that madness. For, despite all the foot-loose mannerisms, the hosteller eventually does learn valuable lessons in independent living.

In our case, as with any other hostel, there were all kinds of inmates. Allow me to offer a sample (my perception, entirely). The padhaakoos (dedicated to the cause of knowledge attainment – Ajay Duggad, Abhay Salpekar, Kinshuk Roy, et al.), the intelligent types (never needed to touch their books, but always came out with flying colours in the exams – Madhu Babu, Navin Shetty, Pradeep Singh Raghav), the erudite (professorial types – Alok Singh, Deepak Deore, Samir Bajpai, Manoj Arora – surprisingly all Civil Es!)), the irreverent (pooh-poohing all doctrines and philosophies – Satish Sharma, Gautam Moitra), radical, left-wing socialist ideologues (US baiter P Lalu, with his Das Kapital/ Paul Samuelson in tow), the entrepreneurial variety (never one to let go of a business opportunity – Bidyut Mazumdar, Paul Koshy), the arty types (mostly in a world of their own – Saket Shrivastava), the gyaanis (who disbursed gyaan irrespective of whether the receiving end was tuned-in or not – Deepak Pandya, Ashok Dixit, Jaideep Mukherjee, et al.), the patriotic types (who watched war movies and imagined joining the Fauj – Sriramakrishnan, Sanjay Sharma), the sincere kind (always prim-n-propah in behavior and etiquette – Rajesh Bharadwaj, PK Swain, Devendra Patel), the tensed types (stressing out their buddies as well – Vineet Thakur, Harjeet Gill), the nonchalant, happy-go-lucky types (completely indifferent to stressful situations – Kuldip Mathur, Raman Marwaha), and what have you. There were also the suave debonairs (well-dressed and given to smooth-talking!), and the nocturnal types (raat ke humsafar, they would only be seen and heard after sunset!), and I will leave it to the imagination of my friends to conjure up names for these categories. The best part was that while the differences were debated, it was also celebrated.

R – Ragging. That dreaded college initiation rite, purportedly to loosen fresh-from-home prudes. While there exist many hilarious episodes amongst our classmates, the one that stands out in my experience relates to six of us viz. Indranil (Mukherjee), Sagar (Mohbe), Kuldip (Mathur), Shaji (Ravindranath), R Ajayan, and yours truly (quite an eclectic group there!). At the risk of earning the wrath of the other five, let me narrate the story that the world needs to know. The setting – an apartment in Samta Colony, close to one that the six of us had rented in our 1st year; the time – close to 2300 hrs; the occasion – our first meeting with one of the most fearsome and dreaded seniors, Sunil Mohre [3rd Year Civil/Chemical(?)], as part of an all-night ragging session; the outcome – anti-climax at its rip-roaring best! Now, the narrative. Each of us was expected to start with a song, as a way of introducing ourselves. Thanks to a palatable vocal chord, I finished off uneventfully. Next, it was the turn of Kuldip. Though melody wasn’t his forte, he was a master of lyrics and went through a full song, without batting an eyelid. The baton was then taken up by Sagar, who, in his inimitable style, managed to pass muster. The trouble started with Ajayan’s performance. Our man (Sunil Mohre), by this point in time, had realized that things were not going along expected lines, and was starting to get unsettled. By the time Shaji picked up the cue for his song, one could fathom that Mohre hadn’t bargained for this kind of an assault on his senses. Indranil’s rendition was the last straw on the proverbial camel’s back. It ruined Mohre completely! He was never the same again. In the face of such an onslaught, he bade us goodbye, and beat a hasty retreat! The session that was supposed to be an all-nighter, was over in a trice. The next day, we were heralded as victorious champs, the intrepid guys who had survived an experience that was expected to be worse than a four-hour Bollywood balderdash starring Zayed Khan and Dino Morea in the lead, ably(?!) supported by Arjun Rampal and Himesh Reshamiya. However, we too, suffered collateral damage. The emotional strain and suspense broke Ajayan and Shaji. They retracted from our apartment, never to come back. That prompted the move of the remaining four of us, to a rented accommodation in Tatibandh. But, that’s another story.

D – Dirty Jokes, also Day Scholars. What’s college life without dirty jokes! What amazes you however is the sheer inventiveness and creativity of the jokes. As for the depravity of content, the less said the better! There used to be an unending stream of these from some stalwarts like T Paul Koshy, Nirmal (TNS Plaha), Dhillon, Anurag Rajvanshi, et al., who could rattle them non-stop! Wonder what their source was!

Day scholars were a different kettle of fish. There was a love-hate relationship, a tacit war of sorts, always on, between the hostlers and day scholars. It used to reach a crescendo when haggling for a General Goal (GG - see entry above), the latter’s crib being that having travelled all the way from their homes to the college, it was unkind of the former to inveigle them to cut classes. The love part of the relationship stemmed from the fact that the day-scholars were quite liberal in passing up goodies that they brought from home, to the perpetually starved hostlers. Should add the fact that I shared some great vibes with this breed including (in alphabetical order) Abhay Tarnekar, Ajay Bangad, Dipen Shah, Prashant Shrivastava, Sajeet George, Santosh Surana, Shailesh Chandak, (to name, but a few).

U – Uniform. The white-black combo of upper and lower garments inflicted on the first year students, so that they stood out for special treatment from the seniors.

E – Educational Tours. Those carefully camouflaged visits to tourist destinations. For what would you expect to be educated on, at such exotic locales as the Sun Temple, Konark (3rd year educational tour, purportedly to the Hirakud Dam Hydel Power Station), or to Goa and Bombay (4th year, apparently to visit Goa Capacitors, and Crompton Greaves Fan factory at Mumbai).

Personally, the Sun Temple educated me, through its explicit carvings, on the convoluted preferences of our ancestors in matters physical/sensual, and corroborated the fact that my tastes and likings on the subject were far from deviant. As regards Goa, there are dime a dozen anecdotes, including that involving Paul and Bhatia, when I first understood the term “p**s drunk”. The night that I, Verma, Paul, Moitra (I forget the rest) spent at a bus stop, having missed the last ferry to our hotel, is indeed unforgettable. Goa also gave me my very first experience of Pina Colada, Fish Pomfret, Kaju Feni, and ‘Sex on the Beach’ (I refer of course, to the Vodka and Peach Schnapps based drink, you perverted souls!).

G – General Goal (GG). Bunking classes en masse. While it is the most enjoyable event in the lifetime of most students at GEC (R), the effort involved in convincing the girls (and a few day-scholars) about the virtues of GG could be herculean. Some (like Paul, Bidyut, etc.), had perfected the art of influencing people to such an extent that they could offer Dale Carnegie and his tribe, tutorials in their core competence.

B – Babulal Gali. For those in the know, it needs no introduction; for those who don’t, it’s too late to know, and therefore, I prefer to leave it at that!

P – Project (Final Year). Ajay (Duggad), Anupam (Pandit), and I were the teammates for the final year project titled “Thyristor–based Speed Control of Motors”. Having finished with the literature survey and simulation exercises, it was time now for the Real McCoy – the Demo. The components were rigged on a breadboard in the Electronics Lab, and the Guide was invited to view the functional prototype. Duggad was the most enlightened amongst our project team in these aspects, and he was therefore offered the privilege of choreographing the show. Having ascertained that everything was in order, the system was switched on with a prayer in our hearts and fingers crossed. And lo and behold!, the whole contraption went kaput! It was preceded by a flash of lightning on the thyristors, and succeeded by the familiar smell of burning copper, a sure-fire indication that the thyristors were beyond redemption. As luck would have it, despite the presence of four electrical engineers (that included our erudite Guide), no one noticed that the feed to the board was supplied directly from the mains, instead of through a stepped-down, rectified supply. Two extenuating factors absolved us from the crime, and the need to set up an alternate prototype; (a) the fact that the incident happened right under the nose of our venerable Guide, and (b) that it was the fag end of the academic session, leaving us with no room for a repeat fabrication.

F – Faculty. Well, how does one even begin to thank a breed of ladies and gentlemen who made you, what you are today! We were indeed blessed to have been accorded the privilege of everlasting contribution from a gamut of exceptional individuals who comprised the faculty. I have had the good fortune, later in life, of being taught by some really illustrious intellectuals at IIT, Bombay (during MTech) and at IIM, Lucknow (while pursuing Executive MBA). However, I can state with complete conviction that the untiring, selfless, passionate approach to pedagogy of our instructors at GEC (R), compensated for whatever lack of pedigree (if any!), they suffered vis-à-vis the high-brow academic blue-bloods at IIT (B) and IIM (L).

I am sure I would be forgiven for rendering this section, a tad too lengthy. Also, I run the risk of being labeled as biased and unjust, if I name only a few of the faculty in a piece such as this. However, I feel the transgression would be graver if I fail to honour, at least some of them, who have left indelible impressions on our lives. So, off I go! The first and second years at the college are a haze, but peeping out of that misty fog are the visages of three outstanding educators. The first, that of a ruffled gent, with the unmistakable demeanour of a man on a mission – Prof Babu Lal Gupta, the Maths teacher. With his disheveled hair, loose, ill-fitting attire and, if I remember correctly, a propensity to chew paan (or was it the famed gutka?), he would have been a caricaturist’s delight. But, give him a chalk and a blackboard, and he was a wizard non pareil. The toughest of the problems in the Engineering Mathematics text-book (BS Gerewal, was it?) would be reduced to putty in his hands. We would be ever thankful to the maestro for having laid the foundations of a subject that is the mainstay of engineering. Hats off to you, Sir!

Next, it’s the deadpan, impassive demeanour of the (then) Head of Electrical Engineering (EE) faculty – Dr. Nigam. That he took upon himself the task of exposing the rudiments of EE to 2nd year students, speaks volumes of his vision and strategy of ‘tapping them young’. Of course, the fact that Deepshikha, his daughter was in our course, may have influenced his decision. However, if his intent was to motivate students into opting for EE, post the 2nd year, I guess, it was achieved in ample measure. Many a hard-core Mech/Civil/Met/Min/Chem guys were impressed by EE, and influenced enough, to take to bijli as a career option.

Finally, who can forget the calm disposition of the exceptionally talented Prof. ML Dewangan, as he painstakingly explained to the Applied Mechanics class, the tricky nuances of Statics and Dynamics. It’s an image that would stay till eternity.

As for the EE faculty, Dr. Khandelwal (Head of Faculty) was awe-inspiring for his sheer breadth of knowledge. Whether it was Circuit Theory or Control Systems, he could pontificate with ease on the concepts and aspects of the subject under discussion. He had the calibre to instill a fire in you to ignite your imagination. He also had the calibre for extended, interminable class sessions that could evoke a sense of resignation at the inevitable! Then, there was the flamboyant Dr. Zadgaonkar, a man for all seasons. He could preach any subject with the practiced ease of an upcountry salesman. Prof Thoke was as inscrutable as they come; if you could follow him, you could follow the Upanishads, in Sanskrit at that! Prof Gune, Prof Baghel, et al., were invaluable cogs in the wheel of education who have helped uplift us from the morass of ignorance, and placed us on the pedestal of the civilised and the cultivated. Last but not least, Prof. Kale (God bless his soul!) He was intelligence personified. Blessed with poise, impeccable manners and a great sense of humour, he was quite clearly ahead of his times. By establishing the very first Computer Lab in our college when we were in the 3rd year, and guiding a few (misguided) souls like me into the (then) esoteric art of computing sciences, he taught us how to embrace change. Thank you, Sir, for having sown the seeds of interest in a domain that is now my profession, and giving us our first lessons in Change Management, long before it became a corporate mantra, or “Who Moved My Cheese” became a runaway best-seller, and the Harvards, the Yales and the Whartons institutionalized and structured it into their curriculum.

V – Vachchani Dr.. That dapper Principal we had for a short stint. I guess, we were in the second year when he took over. A natty dresser, he was never without a tie, in an age and place where wearing one could have reduced you to a laughing stock, if you didn’t have the panache to carry it off. He was also a holy terror, as he prowled the corridors sniffing out, up-to-no-good mischief-mongers.

I – Imtihaan. The dreaded annual event that evoked cold sweat and terror in the hearts of even the most prepared for the event. As for the less (or not) prepared, there was always “The Ventures“ thematic super-hit from the eponymous movie – ‘Come September’

X – XXL. The size of the heart (collectively and individually) of the Class of 87, GEC (R), and the reason why we would be there, in large numbers at the SJR.

C – Campus. Nestled in an area of (round about) 70 acres, the campus was encircled by the railway line to its North, the National Highway to its South, and the ST Bus depot to its West. The cluster that called itself the Choubey Colony, boxed it from the East. There was nothing remarkable about the campus; at the same time there was something to it that captivated us. To be fair, several campuses, both within the country and outside, that I have had the privilege of visiting, or being a part of (later in life) have their USP. Some stand out for its expanse (IIT, Bombay for instance), others have far more history (IISc Bangalore, ISI Kolkata, take your pick!), or are far more picturesque (the one at Santa Barbara in Los Angeles takes the cake). But thank you, Ivy League; nothing like our good old GEC (R) campus. Maybe it’s the length of the time that one spent there that tethers it closely, maybe it’s the company that one had there, that reminds you of the good times. Whatever it be, the campus had a certain vibrancy to it, a vivacity beyond what you would imagine an inanimate patch of land, with its infrastructure would be expected to have, a kind of life produced by a heart-beat, as it were.

W – Workshop. Located in the aft section of the institute, this is where one learnt the rudiments of Machining, Fitting, Welding, Carpentry, Moulding, Blacksmithy, etc. - the core trade skills that sends your adrenalin pumping, the first time you wield the tools, since you believe (at that tender age that), that’s what engineering is all about. Soon, however, zest gives over to fatigue, and zeal to lethargy, as every arduous lift of the hammer, to hit the puny piece of heat-reddened metal on the anvil, breaks your back, bit by wee little bit.

M – Masterji. The Rajesh Khanna-Sridevi starrer released while we were in the 3rd (?) year, that prompted a GG (see entry for GG), and en masse attendance by the “Electricals” at its screening; the pitch being that such a move would be entirely noble, since it was our way of paying tribute to our Gurus in college. It’s another matter that far from being anything remotely close to a tribute, the movie was an explicit display of the lead heroine’s oomph. Guess, the guy who suggested the idea (T Paul Koshy, Rajeev Puri, Sanjeev Bhatia, Srinivas, - take your pick), had an inkling of what was in store!

Well, guys, that brings us to “The End”. Some alphabets have been left out, not for want of anecdotes, but owing to the imposition of time and space; ‘time’, that I had, to complete this “assignment” (that term is a grim reminder of college), and the ‘space’, allowed to me in the Souvenir by the Editor(s). Also, while no effort has been spared to capture the factual parts of the narrative correctly, poetic license has been resorted to, at places, to fill in details that have been erased from the author’s memory, partly due to an early case of senile dementia, and largely due to the vintage of events. Finally, my heartfelt apologies to the girls of the Class of 87; they have been given a short shrift in this piece. It is a sign of the times that we grew up in. Despite their presence hanging on in the campus like the proverbial will-o’-the-wisp, interactions with them were not really as close, and as often enough, as one would have liked it to be, to capture the spirit of their existence in college. If it’s any consolation, here’s a collective confession from the boys of the Class of 87 (with due apologies to Elvis Presley and Pet Shop Boys) – you were Always on our Minds!